The Art of Writing
by LostThyme
Summary: According to an old prophecy, Yeesha's daughter will live in a time of peace. While that is true, her daughter sees a dark future in store for their people.


"The D'ni, they treated Writing as if it were a science, to be formulated and planned. Their Ages were perfectly executed equations, meant to balance out and make sense. It wasn't the formulas or the theories or the planning that made the Ages magnificent. It was the little mistakes, the variations in script, the little run of ink that made the Ages what they were. It was that little edge of error that cluttered things up, that made the Writers throw away the ruined pages."

I followed Sorat through the passages in the mountains of Releeshahn, carved out by my own grandfather. He had been one of the first humans to find their way into the world of the D'ni. My story isn't that interesting. Only know that I lived among the D'ni until I was ten, left for Earth, then returned only recently. I knew my way through my grandfather's tunnels as if I had made them myself, and yet I found myself trailing along behind her on paths I had never seen before.

"Where are we going?" I had to ask as we turned into a narrow, claustrophobic corridor of roughly carved granite.

"You'll see." Her words were as clipped as her pace. We made yet another quick turn, our heels echoing out staccatos on the stone. "My great-grandfather made the most beautiful Ages. The most flawed. They were like gasping breaths in the night, like summer bugs that fall against the window ledge at the first sign of autumn. They were places of strange beauty made from cobbled words and the untrained hand of an angry man." Sorat paused in her rushed, strange narrative as we reached a heavy door set at the end of the corridor. It was unadorned, yet the weight of it gave it as much importance as any number of carvings or gilt decorations. She pulled a key out of her pocket. The key turned smoothly, but she struggled to push the door open.

"Here, let me help," I said, moving forward. Before I could reach she pushed the door open with a quick shove.

The room beyond was dark, unlit by candle or sunlight. A stagnant, dry smell rolled out, a familiar smell. I realize now that it was the same smell in the caverns of D'ni. It was a lifeless, moldy smell. "The very essence of a driven Writer leaks into his works, as it did with my great-grandfather," she continued, lighting a match she drew from her pocket with a quick flip of her wrist. "All his Ages were made of anger and strife try as he might to hide it."

She held the match to the wick of an unseen candle. The room glowed into being with the smell of phosphorous. It was a small room, carved out with the same untrained hand as the corridor. It had none of the craftsmanship of my grandfather's excavations. This had been done with an untrained eye. It had no furniture or furnishings save a pedestal in the center. As we approached it our footsteps were dampened by a slightly damp rug underfoot. The rug looked old, older than the room we were in. It looked like it was once a tapestry. I followed the threads as they formed miniscule people detailing some sort of once-important event.

As I was engrossed with the history under our feet, she only had eyes for the pedestal. Sitting on its inclined surface was a book, far newer than the tapestry or the rug. It was bound in thick leather, but there were no markings to distinguish it save a single phrase of curling D'ni script. I've never seen such a look on a face of someone my own age. It was the expression of an elderly person who has seen their life and realized they've done nothing with their time. It was the look my father had whenever he thought no one was looking. It was a look of infinite sadness.

"My mother taught me to learn from my great-grandfather's mistakes and his discoveries. I write as he wrote, with every passion in my body. My Age, my one work shows my being. It is made, as am I, of the willful nature of my great-grandfather, of knowledge of Writing from my grandfather, of my grandmother's dreams, and my mother's imagination. That place," she stroked the leather cover of the book, "…this book is as I am. _Kehn Chehveht _is what I called it.

"I let no one go there. I have only been there once myself, the night that my grandfather died. It was a terrible place. I swore to never go back." She turned to me then, with the weight of the world in her eyes.

"Why did you bring me here?" I wanted to reach out to her, but something in her expression held me back.

"I'm old, Hector. I've been running from this book for too long."

My mind flipped over two different responses but settled on the less important for some reason. "You're not old," I blurted out. "You look younger than I do!"

She smiled sadly. "I'm old enough to be your grandmother," was all she replied. "I knew your grandfather in the years that he was carving out this place."

I had no reply to that. While not D'ni myself I knew of the D'ni longevity. I had just fooled myself into thinking she was younger than I. "Why are you running from this book?"

Sorat took the book up in her arms and held it protectively across her chest. "Because the book is a reflection of me, and it is a look into the future of D'ni. '_And the daughter of the daughter will live in peace,'" _she said enigmatically. "Have you heard that phrase before?"

It sounded familiar, but I shook my head.

"It's an old prophecy about my family. I'm supposed to be the daughter living in peace," she laughed lightly, but it was a chilling laugh. "They even went so far as to name me _shoraht_. Let me tell you, this peace is going to short lived. I've seen it. The bitter ending has been written."

"Maybe not." This dark talk was scaring me. I placed a hand over hers pleadingly. "Let's go there together."

She opened the book and extended it toward me. "That is why I brought you here. I know I must go back but I don't want to go alone."

I looked down at the panel. It was dark, darker than the unlit tunnels beyond this small room. A heavy sense of dread settled inside me but I ignored it for Sorat's sake. "You don't have to." I placed my hand on the panel and felt the world dissolve.

The Age was not peaceful. It was beautiful, but an ancient darkness lingered there. We were there for just a few minutes but when we returned I understood. I had seen the end of D'ni, the bitter end. That's why I'm adding to the old prophecy. The daughter of the daughter may live in peace, but the end of her life one day will usher in a new age for D'ni. The final chapter of the book.


End file.
